his sudden absence hurt her pride, and made her wonder
whether, after all, his friendliness had been merely a pretence.

Once or twice he met her in the village, but he only saluted her and
hurried on his way; while the invitations which the ever-hospitable Sir
Richard insisted on sending him were refused with excuses so shallow
that even the good-natured host of Greengates refrained from comment.

The contrast between this ungracious behaviour and Bruce Cheniston's
open delight in her society was strongly marked; and the friendliness of
the younger man brought balm to Iris' sore heart, sore with the first
rebuff of her budding womanhood. When Anstice failed her, refused her
invitations, and appeared indifferent to her smiles, it was undoubtedly
soothing to feel that in Cheniston she had a friend who asked nothing
better than to be in her company at all hours, to do her bidding, and to
pay her that half-laughing, half-earnest homage which was so delicate
and sincere a tribute to her charms.

Anstice had spoken truly when he said the psychological moment was at
hand. Until the day when his visits to Greengates ceased abruptly Iris
had been inclined, ever so unconsciously, to look upon Anstice with a
slightly deeper, more genuine regard than that which she gave to the
other man; and had Anstice been able to seize the moment, to follow up
the impression he had made upon her, it is possible she, would have
listened to him with favour, and the tiny seed of affection which
undoubtedly lay in her heart would have burst into a lovely and precious
blossom which would have beautified and made fragrant the rest of their
lives.

But Anstice might not seize the moment; and although Bruce Cheniston had
hitherto taken the second place in Iris' esteem, when once she realized
that Anstice had apparently no intention of renewing their late
friendship she gently put the thought of him out of her heart and turned
for relief to the man who had not failed her.

So matters stood on the morning of Iris' birthday, a glorious day in
mid-July, when the gardens of Greengates were all ablaze with roses and
sweet-peas, with tall white lilies whose golden hearts flung sweetest
incense on the soft air, with great masses of Canterbury bells and giant
phlox making gorgeous splashes of colour, mauve and red and white and
palest pink, against their background of velvet lawns and dark-green
cedar trees.

This was the day on which Bruce Cheniston had